


the hunter's prayer

by ethia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-22
Updated: 2010-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-06 13:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ethia/pseuds/ethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe prayer is just a matter of perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the hunter's prayer

He's tried to describe it to Dean once: the sound-feel-sight of prayer as it sheds the shells of the human world and brings forth its message to their Lord, Father of All. The myriads of incandescent shapes, thought-strands whispering through angelic minds, most of them tinged with the urgency of hope, despair, fear; some aglow with gratitude, with love; each strand as purely unique as the being it was born from, the whole of their being pulled into sharp focus, destilled into one moment, there and then - but the human languages stretch only so far, and Castiel felt that he failed to make Dean understand.

*

It's a simple act, yet Dean devotes his whole attention to it, except for the small part that's always, _always_ strung tight and watching out for danger, even with Castiel's presence in the room.

Dean's fingers move swiftly, glistening with the slip-slick shine of oil, and with great care he dissambles his weapon, laying out each part in front of him in a pattern that by now, Castiel has come to recognize. Every minute component will be examined, cleaned, then put back into its proper place, to form a whole again.

_For our safety_, Dean said when Castiel asked why, and _isn't it obvious_? It was, but lying underneath Castiel saw more, once he really started looking: the utter concentration on Dean's face, the sure movements of his hands and the calm that settled over him like something had been answered to his satisfaction.

And suddenly, Castiel felt like a fool for asking.

*

There is no time, but when is there ever? Not even Castiel can slow its passing, as much as he wishes he could, to afford Dean the time he needs to be better prepared.

Dean crouches in the near-dark of the ruined house, blood trickling slowly from a cut beneath his eye. His chest is heaving, his shoulders curled forward in an effort to protect himself as best he can. He's clutching his shotgun with his left hand, his right one dangling limply by his side, rendered temporarily useless by the demon's assault. Pain's sharpening the lines of his shoulders, and when his eyes slip shut Castiel steps forward to offer what little assistance he can.

"Just listening for the bastard, Cas," Dean murmurs on a labored breath, giving his head a minute shake. "Go check on Sammy for me, okay? Get him out of here. I'll handle this."

"Dean—"

"Just. _Please_, Cas. I'm good, stellar."

_No_, Castiel wants to say, and _this is such a typically stupid human thing to do_ but he keeps his silence, because this is Dean and he needs to do this, needs to prove to himself that he _can_ and this is another thing that Castiel can't ever hope to change, so he acquiesces.

"I'll be back as fast as I can," he says, and as he moves past Dean he gently brushes his hand against Dean's good arm, feeling the warmth of Dean's body through the fabric.

"Yeah, no rush," Dean says, not as breathless anymore, and the pressure against Castiel's fingers increases for a moment as Dean leans into his touch. Castiel looks down on him: a black silhouette against the slightly less dark backdrop of the night around them, head bowed in concentration as he crouches low, tied to this moment completely. Waiting for the enemy to reveal himself, and make himself vulnerable to Dean's attack. More than ever Castiel wants to stay and protect this man, be his eyes and shield in the dark.

"Cas." It's the softest of sounds, barely there but enough to shake Castiel out of his reverie. He steps away, his pulse drumming wildly in his chest, and then he hurries off, still absorbed in the sight of Dean's crouching figure.

The demon won't stand a chance.

*

"You'll get sunburn, you know."

Dean's voice is muffled by the Impala's massive shape above him; only his legs and feet are visible to Castiel as he raises himself slightly from his resting place on the bed of a rusty old pickup. It's the first time Dean has spoken in almost an hour.

"Angels don't sunburn."

"Uh-huh."

There's a clank, followed by a thump, then a rattle. Castiel inspects the skin of his arms, bare up to his elbows which is as far up as his sleeves would go. There _is_ a slight redness, but he soothes it away with a thought.

"Cheat," Dean says as he's crawling out from underneath his car, pointing some sort of tool in Castiel's general direction. There's grease smudged all over him; his hands and arms are almost completely covered in grime but his mouth stretches into a slow smile as he looks up at Castiel.

"How about sharing with the class, Cas?" he says, stretching out his arms, and Castiel thinks that he has never looked so young, so carefree. The thought tightens his chest.

"That's not within my powers, Dean."

"You're just no fun," Dean says with a shake of his head, spreading more grease across his face as he rubs at his cheek. "I'm not done, anyway."

He walks to the front of the car and bends under the hood, sticking his arms elbow-deep into the engine. Castiel sits up to watch him work, the flex and bulge of his muscles as he fixes what's wrong, lost in the inner workings of a machine he loves like a home and treats like a member of his family. His movements are sure and measured, but the longer Castiel watches the more he thinks of them as gentle, caring, nurturing – much the same way they look when Dean's stitching up his brother's skin. He looks like he belongs, like maybe this is what he's meant to do even if Castiel knows that his fate is a different one.

He keeps on watching, as intent on his human charge as Dean is on his car, and another hour passes in silence.

*

There is no telling when Sam will be back, or even _if_.

Dean knows; it's evident in every line of his body as he stands by the window, staring out into the night, his fingers idly tracing the lines of his tattoo through his shirt.

"Is she with him?" he asks, in a flat voice like the answer doesn't matter, and aren't humans adept at lying, especially to themselves?

"Yes," Castiel says, because he doesn't lie to Dean and keeping this information from him would only complicate matters in the end.

"Bitch." Dean says it not quite under his breath; at his side, his right hand curls into a fist, skin pulling tight across his knuckles. A moment later his hand relaxes, but the movement looks forced, and painful.

"Dean."

"_What_?"

Castiel moves to stand behind Dean, chest to back, his fingers curling lightly around Dean's wrist.

"If it means anything to you – she will protect his life with her own, of that I'm certain."

The tension in Dean's body doesn't lessen; Castiel can feel the strum of it against his own body as Dean leans into him with a tight little breath.

"I need him to be safe, Cas. He must be safe. He's my brother."

"Yes," Castiel whispers against the skin of Dean's temple, "_yes_."

It's not his promise to make, but then Dean wasn't exactly asking _him_, so there's no harm in that, Castiel figures.

*

Castiel knows that Dean is gone even before he opens his eyes and fully fits himself back into the human world. He rolls over; there's no trace of warmth left on Dean's side of the bed. On his pillow, Castiel's questing fingers find damp spots, cool to the touch and already beginning to dry.

Dean's somewhere nearby, out in the warm summer night, wide awake. Castiel gets up and pads to the door on his bare feet, letting himself get distracted by the feel of different textures against his skin.

He spots Dean as soon as he steps out of their room: stretched out on the hood of his car, one leg pulled up, face turned towards the sky. Castiel stops for a moment, inclining his head to the right, to the room next to theirs, where the demon is at rest, and Sam with her. A pleasant breeze brushes against his skin as he stands and listens, rustling through his hair and slipping warmly under the hem of Dean's shirt. He nods to himself, then starts to cross the parking lot, the ground still slightly sun-warm against his feet.

Dean looks calm enough when Castiel reaches the car; he turns his head to look at Castiel, and seems far away for a moment, like part of him is still gripped tightly by the nightmare that drove him away from Castiel's side.

"Cas," he murmurs, and when he smiles the distance melts away, like it's never been there in the first place. He sticks out his hand, fingers curled invitingly. "C'mere."

Castiel clambers up, to the sound of Dean's soft laughter.

"Easy there, buddy," he says, pulling Castiel up. "Yeah, that's it."

It's a surprisingly comfortable position, once Castiel has lined himself up to Dean's body. A vestige of the day's scorching heat has remained in the metal of the car, slowly seeping through Castiel's clothing. His body relaxes into it, and Castiel sighs softly.

Dean stirs next to him, hoisting himself up on one elbow.

"Did I wake you, Cas?"

It's a very human thing to ask; what happens when Castiel is at rest within his vessel bears little resemblance to the human concept of sleep, but the result is much the same, so maybe the difference doesn't matter at all.

"No," he says, glancing at Dean, at his wide eyes and the taut line of his mouth. "You didn't."

Dean nods, apparently satisfied, and slides back to lie next to Castiel, face once more turned upwards.

"So. He's really up there, then?"

Castiel follows his gaze; he looks at the wonder of Creation, manifest in the infinity stretching out high above them, everything part of the same whole. He rolls over on his side, seeking Dean's eyes, one hand coming to rest on Dean's hip, his thumb finding a bare sliver of skin where Dean's shirt has ridden up. He rubs gentle circles there, back and forth, the slightest of touches, until Dean starts to press up into his touch and turns his half-lidded gaze on Castiel.

"He's everywhere, Dean. When I listen, I hear Him in the keening of the wind, the rustle of the leaves. I see Him everywhere in His Creation, in every single one of you. And then I look at you, Dean, and—"

Castiel closes his eyes, shields himself from the openness of Dean's gaze. It's too overwhelming; too much to put into words, so much that Castiel aches with the intensity of it, a feeling he hasn't known outside Heaven.

"You," he whispers, raising his hand to Dean's face, brushing his fingers against Dean's smile, his brow. "You need to sleep. Let me—"

"Nah, I'm good," Dean says, pulling Castiel close, his lips whispering against the side of Castiel's neck, making his breath catch in his throat. "Let's not go anywhere for a while. Let's – watch."

They do, and later, when Dean's fallen asleep with his head resting on Castiel's shoulder, Castiel will move them back inside, his body curled around Dean's.

*

It is, for Castiel, always like the first time. Always new, always different, although some constants remain, like the wonder of Dean's body lined up with his, skin against warm skin, moving with a quiet, gentle strength. Or the moment, _this_ moment, when Castiel slips into Dean's body, sees the pleasure-trust-calm on his face, like this is everything Dean's ever asked for.

"Yes," Dean moans, his lips against Castiel's shoulder, strong fingers kneading Castiel's back, pulling him ever deeper in, until Castiel fully gives himself over to the rhythm of their bodies moving together, as one.

"Cas," and his name is a whisper that rides on a long, shuddering breath; Dean's head drops back, eyes wide and dark, his lips red and glistening and Castiel licks there, tiny little licks into Dean's mouth until Dean shudders around him, his body strung taut in a beautiful arch, all tension that spikes and spikes and then Dean falls back, his body spent but his eyes still hungry, still wanting and Castiel could get lost in that, but Dean won't let him.

Dean's hands move away from his back, up his shoulders and neck to his face, his movements slow and gentle, like Castiel might break or disappear if he holds on too tightly.

"Touch me, Dean," Castiel says, and he will never get used to the sound of his own voice when it is deep and rough like that. "Your hands, Dean, _please_, your hands—"

And Castiel leans into each gentle touch, brushes his lips across the palms of Dean's hands, rests his mouth against each wrist, where Dean's pulse is stuttering wildly, beautifully; he whimpers at the reverence of Dean's touch, the underlying strength that's always there, even if Dean won't always see it.

Dean's hands are insistent now, pulling Castiel down for a fleeting kiss, the gentlest brush of mouth to mouth.

"Cas," Dean whispers, warm breath against Castiel's mouth, and the tension uncoils in a wild, untamed burst that ripples through the whole of Castiel's being, and he moans into Dean's shoulder, breath after breath after breath.

And always, _always_ he's aware of Dean's hands guiding him, holding him in and binding him to this body, this earth, this man.

"Dude, you totally have a hand kink, you know that?" Dean's laughing against his sweat-slick skin, his fingers threading through Castiel's hair.

"They're good hands, Dean." Praying hands, but he doesn't say that out loud, because Dean doesn't pray, or so he says. Castiel has learned not to argue.

He also doesn't argue when Dean pushes him onto his side, tucking himself against Castiel's body, one hand resting on Castiel's hip where he will feel it even when he's at rest and all that ties him to this world is the simple touch of Dean's hand.

 

*

Perhaps the language doesn't matter after all, and the simplest words will suffice: that prayer is but a moment of devotion, of resting in yourself and, for just that moment, finding your place in the whole of Creation.

And thus, Castiel understood.

 

THE END.

 

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